


Love is Subjective

by son_of_a_bitch_spn_family



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Cas leaves and no one likes it, Cas owns a motorcycle, Cas wears Leather, Dean has a lot of feelings, Dean hates and loves that in equal measure, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Sex on a motorcycle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 01:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15961646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/son_of_a_bitch_spn_family/pseuds/son_of_a_bitch_spn_family
Summary: Every now and again, loving Superman feels like giving the world an ultimatum. Keep turning, just this once, and give me this, or learn what it means to be still. Dean's been still for far too long. He wants a turn now.He moves, circling closer to Cas, like the sure rotation of the earth. Dean knows he's a pillar to what keeps it turning, a fortified bolt in the cogs that makes it run. Save the world once, and it gives you an ultimatum. Keep saving forever, and forget to live, or learn what it means to die. Being in love with Superman while trying to be Superman feels like fraudulent activity.





	Love is Subjective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jscribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/gifts).



> Okay, so Cas owning a motorcycle, wearing leather, and fucking Dean on said motorcycle has been eating at my brain for awhile. In fact, a lovely friend of mine has been the ultimate cheerleader about it. They've been wanting it as much as I've been wanting to write it. So, this is for jscribbles. Thank you. 
> 
> Shout out to MalMuses for the "tolder smiles while stuffing more toys in a toilet" idea. Thanks for that. Leave it to me to work that into a Destiel fic. 
> 
> And a huge shout out to the whole Cucumber Crew about making Cas' fat cock a thing. Yes, that's in here too. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Torture is subjective. 

 

Sometimes, it’s downright dangerous. Most times, it's painful. But occasionally… torture is delightful. 

 

As the saying goes:  _ these violent delights have violent ends.  _

 

Dean wouldn't dare to admit that he knows that quote from  _ ‘Twilight’, _ but it fits so perfectly into how his life has been going as of late that he thinks about the quote frequently. Dean has been subjected to a certain strand of torture, and he somehow found it within himself to enjoy every fucking second of it. 

 

Cas shouldn't equate to torture, but he does. Fuck, he definitely does. Standing in his leather, hair mussed from the open race of wind he'd whipped through, Cas looks like Dean's own personal brand of internalized torture. 

 

“You're back!” Sam yells, brushing past Dean to wrap Cas in a hug. 

 

Because, well, because Sam is an excitable puppy sometimes, especially when it comes to seeing someone he cares about returning after being gone for long periods of time. Dean can relate, internally, at least. 

 

“I am,” Cas agrees, hands gently clapping Sam's back, just like Dean taught him to do when he is ever swept in a hug. 

 

“You've been gone so long that-” 

 

And everything sort of whites out after that. Dean stops listening the moment Cas backs up from Sam and leans back against his motorcycle. Long, thick legs fold over each other, crossing at the ankles, and Dean contemplates what spontaneous combustion will feel like. 

 

Cas nods to whatever Sam is saying, arms crossing. It's wrong because his hands don't hide away in the crease of his bent arms. Instead, the fingers grip his elbows, pulling the black leather tighter around his arms. 

 

Dean nearly passes out with how  _ right  _ it is. 

 

“- and he's just been so great since you left! Right, Dean?” Sam asks, swinging wide, happy eyes over to him. 

 

Dean has no idea what was said. “Uh, yeah.” 

 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas calls, lifting one hand and waving his fingers in a rather flirty manner. 

 

Dean hadn't taught him that. Fucking  _ Jody.  _

 

He opens his mouth, blinks, and immediately lets his jaw click back together. He has nothing to say, nothing he  _ can  _ say. Raising his hand, he settles for a short wave and a tight smile. Cas doesn't seem perturbed by this. 

 

“Like I was saying,” Sam continues, backing up and waving Cas into the bunker, “Jack has been working really hard, and I think you're gonna be really proud. Plus, ya know, he misses you. We all do. You've been gone so long. Where have you been? I'm just saying-” 

 

Dean stands stock still as Cas brushes past him, following Sam's dutiful babbling out of the garage. The warmth from his smile as he passes makes Dean's knees go weak, but whatever. 

 

Dean would like to know where Cas has been too, but it's not worth investigating. This isn't the first time he'd just up and went on some self-appointed mission. Some cats to hold, some babies to save from trees. Whatever. 

 

Sure, things have been slow. Low level monsters and short trips across the midwest for dead ends felt like a step down, but Sam calls it a blessing. Claire says it's the new hunters turn. Dean's brain scrambles from any thought of  _ retirement,  _ because no. Just  _ no. _ So… he sticks with vacation as an excuse to what they were doing. 

 

Either way, Cas isn't interested. 

 

He's too big, too strong, to waste on vengeful spirits and shapeshifters. Dean knows this, but he still calls it bullshit. So Cas is out there, curing cancer, or whatever. So what? 

 

Fucking heroes. 

 

He's not sure why he's so bitter. There's a whole song, and movie, and book on why not to fall in love with Superman. 

 

Always the rebel, Dean is. 

 

“Dean?” 

 

Jolting, Dean blinks up at Cas in surprise. Isn't he supposed to be co-parenting with Sam currently? Which, woah. That's a fucking weird thought, if not an unwelcome one. Dean clears his throat. 

 

He manages, “Yeah?” 

 

“Sam has promised to take Jack to a play. There's only two tickets,” Cas informs him, staring at Dean like he could force his gaze  _ into  _ him, needling straight into his soul. 

 

Probably can, the bastard. 

 

“Sam's a wreck, isn't he?” Dean asks, lips curling up at the thought of his behemoth of a brother being absolutely capsized over taking Jack and leaving Cas when he's just returned. 

 

“Tragically,” Cas replies, rolling his eyes. 

 

For a moment, the torture subsides, and Dean finds relief in the easy way they know each other. Years of warping their humor into something the other can initiate, or share, balances perfectly between them. Laughing - or sharing an amused glance - with Cas feels like walking on the tight-rope that is their bond with zero fear of plummeting to his death. Dean likes it. 

 

Dean  _ loves  _ it. Fuck. 

 

“Alright, lets sort this out.” 

 

It kinda sucks that the most action he's had in the last week - of the problem-solving variety - zeroes in on this one moment. Watching as Sam throws apologies at Jack and Cas, hands waving wildly as he tries to come up with a solution. It goes to show how long Cas has been gone that Sam feels  _ guilty  _ for taking Jack away for even one second. There might truly be a problem if Sam even worries that Cas will disappear before be can bring Jack back. 

 

Cas doesn't seem to notice, so Dean steps in. 

 

“Just take him,” Dean calls out, rolling his eyes and waving the issue away easily. “I'll keep Cas company until you guys get back.” 

 

“You sure?” Sam directs his question to Cas. 

 

“I'm not going anywhere,” Cas says. 

 

Even Jack looks doubtful. 

 

Still, they do leave. Dean and Cas shuffles them out the door, sharing looks of exasperation when Baby finally rumbles down the driveway and disappears. As they make their way back inside, Cas frowns over at Dean in confusion. 

 

“What?” Dean asks, eyebrows rising. 

 

“I've been gone thirteen days,” Cas murmurs slowly. He pauses by his motorcycle, eyeing it suspiciously, as if it's the reason he was gone for that long. “I didn't realize that was a long time.” 

 

“Just one day short of two weeks,” Dean says sarcastically, shrugging. 

 

“When you put it like that,” Cas mutters and stops. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, before he gives up altogether. 

 

“Nearly half of a month,” Dean hums, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. 

 

He waits a moment, and when Cas doesn't say anything, he sucks his teeth and huffs. No reply is given, but Dean is well aware what guilt feels like when it comes from Cas, how it permeates the air and taints it. Cas tries to escape it; he leans over and fiddles with the cross hanging from the handle of his motorcycle. Dean had gotten him that as a gag-gift, along with the fucking freshly repaired motorcycle. 

 

He never expected Cas to  _ use  _ them. 

 

“I know,” Cas finally says when the guilt presses too tight around him. “I'm sorry.” 

 

“Did you do something worth the distance?” Dean wonders, watching in fascination as Cas runs his fingers over the plump curve of the upper build of his motorcycle. 

 

Mesmerising. Unfair.  _ Fuck.  _

 

“Mhm,” Cas assures him, pulling back and turning to stare at Dean. “There was a woman. Then, a man. Then, a child. Then… Well, you get the idea. Thirteen days doesn't seem long when you heal those hurt by the heaven's host.” 

 

“It's not your mess to clean, you know.” 

 

Cas tilts his head, lips tightening with the words he held back. “But it is.” 

 

Dean sighs, turning his head away. Sometimes, he can't stand to look at Cas. It's like staring at the sun and demanding it to dim a little. Fruitless, impossible,  _ torturous.  _

 

“Don't do that again,” Dean demands instead. 

 

“Okay,” Cas agrees. 

 

Every now and again, loving Superman feels like giving the world an ultimatum. Keep turning, just this once, and give me  _ this,  _ or learn what it means to be still. Dean's been still for far too long. He wants a turn now. 

 

He moves, circling closer to Cas, like the sure rotation of the earth. Dean knows he's a pillar to what keeps it turning, a fortified bolt in the cogs that makes it run. Save the world once _ ,  _ and it gives  _ you _ an ultimatum. Keep saving forever, and forget to live, or learn what it means to die. Being in love with Superman while trying to be Superman feels like fraudulent activity. 

 

“I don't know why,” Dean starts. He stops, tries again, “I don't know  _ how,  _ but the motorcycle was a mistake.” 

 

Cas’ eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?” 

 

“You're a rebel to heaven, but not to earth. I didn't- I didn't  _ mean  _ for this. The leather, the distance, the death machine,” Dean pauses and takes a deep breath, “it's not what I meant.” 

 

“I'm not sure what you mean,” Cas murmurs. 

 

But he does. He  _ does.  _

 

“I'm sorry, okay?” Dean blurts, and he shuffles closer. “I gave you this stupid motorcycle, and I told you to wear leather, and I said to save the world. Because,  _ because.  _ Well.” 

 

“Well?” Cas presses, blinking slowly. 

 

“It's a big metaphor, right? I ask, and you just  _ do.  _ Leave heaven, Cas. Sure thing, Dean. Forget your family, Cas. What family, Dean? Sacrifice, Cas, sacrifice.  _ Anything, Dean.  _ It's not- not right,” Dean babbles, hands flying out as he grows fierce. He stares at Cas, praying he can see the pleas he's spraying. “I take, and I take, and I just fucking take. And you  _ let  _ me. Why?” 

 

Cas smiles. It's simple for him. “You're how I give.”

 

“No,” Dean denies. 

 

“I want,” Cas assures him, dipping his head. He steps back and settles against his motorcycle easily. “Trust me, I want. It's not taking if it was already yours in the first place, is it?” 

 

“But what about you?” Dean whispers. 

 

“Me?” Cas asks, like maybe the thought that he's  _ something  _ just occurred to him. “I take, too. The motorcycle, for example. I wanted that, and I took it. You didn't force it on me. The leather is just smart. I won't die, but if I wreck… well, the leather fits and it's comfortable. I save people because it feels good, because it feels like tipping the scales from where I caused pain.” 

 

“So… I'm just thinking too much?” Dean mutters, frowning. “I'm putting myself too high on the totem pole again, aren't I?” 

 

“You  _ are  _ fairly high up there, but I am my own thing,” Cas says softly, smiling. 

 

“You just said  _ ‘I do what I want’  _ without saying it,” Dean informs Cas. 

 

“Well,” Cas hums, shrugging awkwardly, still too big for his skin, “yeah.” 

 

Dean drops his head and smiles, grinning at his shoes. Relief floods into him, and he thinks maybe things will go back to normal. No more feeling scraped raw, no more staring at the empty seat at the table in shame. 

 

Things are quiet, but the comfortable kind. The kind that makes Dean think of Sunday mornings, of blankets burritoed around a body in the winter, of sun-kissed skin and all-nighters for the sake of spending time with someone else. 

 

For a moment, Dean marvels at what he has. A best friend who, under different circumstances, would be in heaven. Or, he'd be in Purgatory. Or, living with some woman who didn't know what he looked like when he healed the sick, when he grew exasperated at human social etiquette, when he sank down into a lake and never came up. Too many ways that Cas shouldn't be here, but Dean basks in the fact that he  _ is.  _

 

“How'd we even get here?” Dean announces in awe, staring at Cas in blatant disbelief. 

 

“Divine intervention,” Cas suggests. 

 

“But me and you.  _ Me and you.  _ Cas, we're- we're…” Dean trails off and frowns. 

 

“Yes, we are,” Cas agrees, like he knows the thing Dean can't explain. 

 

Maybe, he does. Dean hopes so, because he has no fucking clue. 

 

“I don't like you being gone,” Dean says again. It's possibly redundant, but it's important. 

 

Cas nods. “Okay.” 

 

“And you don't have to do the leather, and the motorcycle, and the, uh, rebel thing,” Dean mutters, wincing. 

 

“I know that,” Cas challenges. He unfolds from the motorcycle, hovering closer to Dean. “I'm well aware of my free will. You influence me often, yes, but I'm not a rebel for just  _ anything. _ ” 

 

Which, yeah, when he says it like that, Dean thinks it makes a lot of sense. For Dean, because of Dean, in spite of Dean. Whatever. There are perks, and Cas has no shame in basking in them. Dean's ultimately proud of that. 

 

Dean sighs, his breath punching out of him. He knows the leather and the motorcycle aren't going, but he's tired of asking Cas to. Though never explicitly stated, Dean knows he wasn't exactly subtle. Don't leave, he'd hoped. You should go save the world, he'd said. 

 

Loving Superman feels impossible. 

 

“You can still go and do that stuff, but come back more often,” Dean says. 

 

“I will,” Cas swears. 

 

This time, Dean nods. “Okay.” 

 

“You really don't like the motorcycle, do you?” Cas asks curiously, eyeing his motorcycle in thinly veiled reverence. His look was protective, a clear fondness of his face. Looks like Cas found his  _ Baby.  _

 

“I like the motorcycle,” Dean says, because he does. Jesus, he really does. 

 

“And the leather?” Cas counters, holding his leather jacket open to reveal a simple t-shirt. 

 

Dean closes his eyes briefly, gets a grip on himself. “I- yes. It suits you. It's just-” 

 

“Just… what?” Cas insists, eyes so fucking wide and focused on Dean. 

 

It's almost like Cas can peel back every layer of Dean with a heavy gaze. Defiance dances in Cas’ eyes, like a child staring straight at their parent as they stuff more toys into the toilet. He knows, oh how he  _ knows,  _ and he just doesn't care. Cas dips his metaphorical fingers into the edges of Dean's layers and pulls them away, working his way to the center like it's a game he's already won before. Cheater, fucking  _ cheater.  _

 

“It's distracting,” Dean manages weakly. “I'm used to the trenchcoat and suit.” 

 

“Change is good, Dean,” Cas assures him gently. He pauses, reevaluates, and amends, “Sometimes.” 

 

“Right,” Dean agrees, shifting awkwardly, “but I didn't expect you to, uh, wear it so well.” 

 

“You mean… I look good? That's what you're getting at,” Cas states, straight to the point. 

 

“Sure,” Dean allows. He's good at the whole ‘avoiding-what-his-brain-thinks’ thing. He's got years of practice with it. 

 

“Dean,” Cas reprimands, frowning. 

 

Right. They just had a not-so talk. Literal seconds ago, and Dean still wants to avoid everything. It's not like Superman  _ has  _ to know he's being admired by his best friend. 

 

Except, it's Cas. He's probably known for years. 

 

Right. 

 

Dean quirks a smile at Cas. “Yes, you're hot and it's too much for my brain to process. Happy?” 

 

Cas just rolls his eyes. “You're a child. Genuinely, a mere  _ blimp  _ in all that I know. How can I adore you so? I'm beyond baffled by you.” 

 

“Alright, Shakespeare,” Dean coughs, face growing hot, “enough of that.” 

 

“Love is subjective,” Cas tells him, easing into it. Because, he's Cas, and he knows Dean, and oh yeah, he loves Dean. 

 

Right.  _ That.  _

 

“So is torture,” Dean replies. It's the first thing his mind provides him with, and Cas simply glosses over it. He's got shit to say, clearly. 

 

“I'm no angel. I have to use a motorcycle to remember the feeling of flight. I'm no human, either. I don't eat, or sleep, or even feel fully. But things are… things  _ are,  _ Dean,” Cas explains, shifting closer with a soft look. “I am, and you are. My love  _ is, _ despite everything.” 

 

He doesn't say it. He doesn't have to. Dean is thankful. It allows him to breathe, to answer. 

 

“Me too,” Dean says. 

 

And it's that easy, he guesses. 

 

Cas just smiles at him, and that is enough. He shifts, like maybe everything is over. Like Dean's just going to forget the feeling he has bubbling in his chest. Like Dean can ignore the images that pops into his head when he thinks about Cas straddling his motorcycle. Like Dean doesn't understand that  _ ‘I love you’ _ is permission in all the ways they never said it. Like it doesn't fucking sit between them anyway. 

 

But it's not that simple, never is, never will be. 

 

Because it's not, Dean walks forward and grabs the permission Cas just unknowingly granted him. Clutches it close, and presses it warmly, and wet, and open-mouthed into Cas’ moving lips.  Dean hasn't heard a word of whatever Cas said, but he hears when his words fall into a surprised - but pleased - moan. 

 

Dean thinks, yes. Yes,  _ this  _ is what it means. This is what it means to press so much desperation in between two beings who were never meant to withstand such a landslide of an emotion. 

 

Sex shouldn't be the first thing Dean clings to, but he knows that. Knows how bodies slide together and click into place, even without love. Knows what it will be like  _ with  _ it. He knows how it works, how it tattoos the words he can't say into the body he presses into. Knows that knitting bodies together shouldn't be the first answer he desires to give, not after everything he and Cas have been through. 

 

He knows, and he considers stopping, but Cas is asking a question with his fingers - pressing and pulling and wanting and  _ needing needing needing  _ \- that Dean refuses to let go unanswered. Especially when it's the first answer he wants to give. 

 

Cas walks backwards to his motorcycle, his fingers tugging Dean urgently back with him. Dean's focus is gone, eyes skittering back and forth, dark and light flickering as his eyelids flutter. It's- it's  _ everything,  _ and nothing at all. 

 

“Can I-” Cas pants into his lips, words halting as his tongue sweeps out for another taste. 

 

“Yes,” Dean answers the unasked question, panting as Cas’ fingers tumble into his pants. 

 

Dean has no idea what direction this is going in, but he could give two fucks. It's happening, and that's all that matters. His belt clatters to the floor, echoing in the space of the garage, and Cas’ tongue has found a particular spot on his neck to swipe across. Teeth follow, nipping and sucking. There will be a hickey. Dean doesn't give two fucks about that either. 

 

He's been half hard since Cas arrived on his motorcycle and swung his legs over, eyes bright and hair wild. Now, his cock throbs almost painfully. He wants- he wants. Of course, he wants; it's  _ Cas.  _ What else? 

 

Cas peels back just enough to snap clothes out of the way. Abruptly being naked in the garage, hovering near a motorcycle, is not how he'd seen his day going this morning. Though, given some time, Dean might've hoped. 

 

He's always hoped. 

 

“Next time,” Cas whispers, “we do it the human way. Slow, normal, and sensible.” 

 

Dean is none of those things, so he has no idea why Cas offers it up as an explanation. But his mind is foggy, and he desperately wants connection of the sexual kind, like  _ now,  _ so he just nods and presses closer. 

 

Cas presses his hands into Dean's shoulders, a solid grip that runs down over his arms. Dean sways, closes his eyes. Cas’ hands on his body feels like a miracle. Lips press into his, and Dean likes the surprise. He likes not knowing what Cas will do next. He'll learn, with time, but for now… everything is new, and fresh, and  _ inevitable.  _

 

Dean's distracted by the kissing, but he's got just enough mind to split his attention to what Cas’ hands were doing as well. They trace over his chest, brushing over every bump and scar. Cas can't say it - his lips are occupied - but the way his fingers linger and press into his skin tells Dean that Cas adores every inch of him. 

 

“We should- I want- How can we do this?” Dean groans, hovering back from Cas. 

 

Cas blinks slow, looks drunk on the moment. Eventually, his eyes flicker to the side, landing on his motorcycle pointedly. Dean stares at it and tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. Could they? 

 

“You want to?” Cas asks, because he's a gentleman, thank you much. 

 

“Out first time, on your motorcycle. Why not?” Dean laughs, sounding breathless and possibly, just slightly, hysterical. 

 

Cas doesn't indulge his manic state; he just steps away from his motorcycle. Dean considers just  _ how  _ they're going to make this work, but Cas apparently has it all figured out. He presses his hand into the back of Dean's neck and leads him to the motorcycle gently. 

 

Dean's very aware of his shaky legs and bobbing cock. I'm fact, it's all he can focus on. He forces himself to avert his eyes, shifting them towards Cas. And his eyes make a path down to the cock between Cas’ legs, and  _ sweet holy mother of- fuck!  _ Why did Cas have such a- a  _ fat cock?  _

 

It's definitely not a bad thing, subjectively. 

 

Matter-of-fact, Cas’ cock is beautiful. It's red, and long, and somehow even thicker. It bobs proudly between his legs, curving towards his stomach. Dean's licking his lips, thinking of what it'll feel like at the back of his throat. Fuck, he's so filthy. Literal blasmephy, but he doesn't know how to stop. Not only is Cas gorgeous, but he's well- endowed, too. 

 

Which, yeah, that's all levels of awesome. 

 

_ Subjectively.  _

 

But that's possibly two minutes away from being in his ass, and Dean is still sane. Mostly. 

 

“Um,” Dean chokes out. 

 

Cas, unaware of his worry, ignores him in favor of checking that the motorcycle is settled in its spot, making sure it won't move. “Straddle it.” 

 

“What?” Dean blurts, his earlier worry disappearing in his shock. 

 

“Trust me,” Cas offers. 

 

Dean does, because he's a taker. 

 

Straddling the motorcycle is just…  _ weird.  _ He's naked, it's cold, and his cock isn't sure where to go. He's barely settled and fully uncomfortable before Cas has his hands on him. 

 

The maneuvering is… yeah. It's- it's  _ nice.  _

 

Cas presses one hand into the middle of Dean's back, fingers splayed, and presses him down until his chest is warming the cool hump of plastic. His cock is trapped in between his body and the seat, and Dean starts wiggling. He doesn't move for long because Cas draws his hand back and puts it on Dean's hip, right where it bends. The other hand lands on the other hip, and Dean blinks when the fingers tighten. 

 

Next thing Dean knows, he's being hoisted ass up into the air. His legs flail for a second before they curl in towards the motorcycle, gripping the sides. His hands scrabble for purchase as his chest presses harder into the hump of plastic, and they finally land down by his hips, gripping the seat. His cock hangs into free air, bobbing and weeping for attention. 

 

“How?” Dean marvels. 

 

Cas chuckles, sounding rough. 

 

He's smart too, because he has just enough room to get his hand into the space where Dean's cock hangs. Somehow, Cas’ hand smoothes lube over Dean's cock. He's not sure where the lube came from - probably snapped from thin air, because Cas is in a  _ mood _ \- but he knows it's cold as it spreads down his cock, and eventually between his asscheek with Cas’ other hand. Dean swallows hard, throat clicking. 

 

Okay,  _ okay.  _ Yes. Okay. 

 

Cas is gentle and slow-going. His left hand never lets up stroking Dean's cock, even as his right hand spreads him open. The digit lingers, tracing a teasing circle around his hole. Agonizingly slow, one finger presses into him, and Dean just. 

 

He breathes. Legs already shaking, he just fucking focuses on  _ breathing.  _

 

Teeth suddenly scrape over his asscheek, and Dean huffs out a short breath. Cas has leaned forward, pressing wet kisses into his skin, worshiping his ass in every way possible. It leaves trails of goosebumps over his skin, and all the while, Cas’ long fingers tug, slick and rhythmic, over his cock. On top of  _ that,  _ Cas starts to work a second finger in, slow and gentle. Caring, loving, even in sex. 

 

“Fuck,” Dean blurts, turning his head and pressing it into plastic beneath him. 

 

“Don't,” Cas warns. 

 

Like magic, Dean's orgasm backs off. Immediately, Dean knows that secret must never be let out. Cas would tease the fuck out of him for the rest of their lives if he knew about Dean's insistent need to listen to a command during sex. It's a weakness.  _ Whatever.  _

 

With Cas’ gentle administrations, Dean is soon worked open. He can tell by how relaxed his ass has gotten. He almost can't even feel Cas’ fingers working him over. It's relaxing, like a massage. Which, that's great, but he'd really like to be fucked now. 

 

“Cas,” Dean says, but it comes out a whine. So he's more affected than he thought. 

 

It doesn't matter because Cas’ cock replaces his fingers and presses bluntly against him, just resting there for a moment. Dean huffs out a breath, impatient and regrettably needy. He can't get breath back into his lungs because Cas presses forward, passing through the right ring of muscle and settling in him fully. Fitting there. Just.  _ Fitting.  _

 

Dean doesn't think for a solid ten seconds. His mind wipes, and he clenches  _ everything.  _ Cas sucks in a sharp breath behind him, and Dean feels the cock inside him twitch. 

 

He can feel Cas  _ inside  _ him. 

 

_ Fuck, fucking fuck.  _

 

Bravely, he whimpers, “Move, Cas. Just. Move.” 

 

Cas’ right hand drapes over the sides of his thigh, gripping snugly, and his left continues it's gentle stroke of his cock. Dean thinks about the hand on his thigh, hopes he will have bruises later. But he doesn't think much after Cas rolls his hips out before snapping his hips forward again, pressing into him. 

 

It's a soft drag out and sharp pound in. At first, it's too much, but he adjusts. The whole time, Cas continues to stroke Dean's cock at the same pace. The difference in each sensation is strange, but somehow fucking fantastic. 

 

Dean loses himself to it. 

 

The motorcycle is no longer cold. In fact, it's warm, and lovely, and Dean will never, ever think negatively of it again. It's what's holding him together, giving him something to cling to. 

 

Plus, he's getting fucked on a fucking motorcycle. 

 

That's hot. 

 

Cas is breathing sharply behind him, little mewls of pleasure slipping out. It makes Dean crazy, makes him ache to hear him scream. His right hand digs into his thigh, most definitely leaving bruises, and his nails will leave little crescent moons of passion there. 

 

He can feel when Cas starts succumbing to the pleasure. He gets louder, his movements grow more jerky, and the motorcycle jerks slightly faster as he speeds up. There was no longer a slow drag, just a quick rocking of hips, in and out. 

 

Dean is moaning shamelessly, his nails digging into the seat. He vaguely hopes he doesn't tear the leather, but he honestly doesn't care. All he cares about is the heat pooling low in his belly. It's a gradual thing. Layer upon layer of ecstacy stacking on each other, and Dean can feel it about to topple over. He can't fucking  _ wait.  _

 

The sounds of their sex is loud and sharp in the silence of the garage. Dean can hear how their bodies slap together, sweat making the sound of their skin reconnecting, over and over, audible. It's a filthy,  _ filthy  _ melody, and Dean knows he's going to always love it. 

 

Cas’ fingers start tightening around the head of his cock, sending bolts of pleasure through him. He can feel his orgasm on the tendrils of his nerves, curling and traveling to him, quicker and quicker with each swipe of Cas’ hands and the press of his cock into Dean. 

 

It's a symphony of broken chants, just, “Please, please,  _ fuckfuckfuck,  _ oh fuck.” 

 

Cas lets out a low growl, and heat explodes in Dean's cock. He comes all over the seat of the motorcycle, whimpering and cursing his way through the possible best orgasm of his life. He feels Cas’ cock twitch in his ass, hears the telltale moan as Cas undoubtedly comes too.

 

Dean is exhausted, sated, and two seconds from crying. As far as crying episodes go, he's had more than you can shake a stick at, but  _ never  _ while having sex, or even after. 

 

Arms curl around him, peeling him from the motorcycle. He tips, and when he lands, he's curled up in his bed, sobs muffled into Cas’ chest. He wants to be bothered by Cas using what little powers he had toward teleporting to get him to his bed, but he can't. He wants to ask about his clothes, about the mess on the motorcycle, about  _ something,  _ but he cries in Cas’ arms instead. 

 

Because this is what happens when you're in love with Superman. 

 

Dean isn't a damsel. He's  _ not,  _ but fucking hell. 

 

Cas is just a soft litany of, “It's okay, I got you, shhh, don't worry, it's okay.” 

 

Dean thinks there is a lot stuck in the back of his throat and sex didn't do its job of telling it. Because he knows what happens next. 

 

The talking. 

 

How can he tell Cas that the sex was so good, so satisfying, so  _ fulfilling,  _ that he couldn't help but fucking cry his little heart out? How can he tell Cas that he doesn't want him to leave anymore, that he's selfish? How can he tell Cas that he's tired of saving the world, that he's tired of  _ Cas  _ saving the world? 

 

How can he ask Superman to hang up his cape? 

 

He can't, so he gasps out, “I love you.” 

 

Cas hums, runs his fingers through Dean's hair, and replies gently, “I know.” 

 

If Cas wasn't Cas, and they hadn't just had earth-shattering sex on the back of Cas’ motorcycle, he'd be  _ pissed _ that he just got Han Solo'd. As it is, he gives a wet chuckle. 

 

“Tomorrow, we talk,” Dean declares. 

 

“Of course,” Cas says. 

 

“I'm going to sleep now,” Dean murmurs, burrowing closer to Cas, refusing to be ashamed by how pleased that makes him. 

 

“Sleep well,” Cas says, because he's a fucking alien, and then, “I love you.” 

 

Dean's lips curl up before he drops off into his post-orgasm exhaustion. Sure, everything with Cas is torture, sometimes in the best way, but Dean figures if it is subjective… it could easily just be called love instead. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Don't hesitate to drop some comments and leave some kudos. I hope you all enjoyed!


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